Beneath The Endless Sky

A Child Of Ravens Is Born To Sorrow

The shipyard of Whiskeyjack's Roost hung in the sky like a kite at the end of a chain, a hundred miles up.

Standing on the weatherworn deck of the Roost, Vincent Locklear stared up at the island of Idlewind below them. As the island spun, it flung the Roost with it, like swinging a bucket of water on a rope. The artificial pull of the Roost's imitation gravity wasn't quite perfect, it always felt like standing on a slight slope.

Nevertheless, the Roost was one the marvels of the skies; the only Skyharbour in the Endless Blue. The Pride of the Wayfarer Clans, a feat that dared the nations of the great isles to imitate it, and a boon to any traveller of the far skies.

It was a marvel that Vincent's guest didn't seem to appreciate.

"It's unnatural," Commodore Ezekiel Nottle said. The commodore was glaring up at Idlewind, his derision all the more convincing as he stood in his formal navy blues: clothes and hat dyed the nearly black blue hue of a gathering storm, replete with gold trim and silver buttons that gleamed in the light.

"If you stay long enough, it becomes second nature," Vincent replied. The skies around the Roost could be an unnerving sight for anyone accustomed to the comforting pull of solid ground. "And if anything, the pull you're feeling here is at least as strong as it is back in Volante."

"Why couldn't these vagabond build a port on the ground, like a civilized nation?" Commodore Nottle asked, finally turning his gaze from the sky as he waved his arms about. The gesture, and the voiced contempt, caught the attention of a few of the dockyard workers, who stopped what they were doing to listen.

Vincent flinched, as if he was the subject of the commodore's contempt. Nottle was a Volantian noble by birth, who paid for his commission through his family's wealth. Everything about the man, from his mannerism and accent to the shine of his silver buttons stung Vincent like salt being rubbed into a partially healed wound.

Men and women who spoke and acted like Commodore Nottle had stripped Vincent of his commission cast Vincent out of Volante's navy.

Vincent took a slow breath, to school his response. It wasn't wholly successful. "Rather suspect no one but these 'vagabonds' could have conceived of a Skyharbor. And it has its advantages."

Vincent pointed to a ship at the other end of the wharf. A small Wayfarer skiff, barely forty feet long, tied to a white canvas balloon just as long as the ship. The pilot at the wheel was waving to a small crew of dock workers standing at the edge of the wharf. At that signal, one of the workers swung a sledgehammer, smashing it into a wooden peg as large as he was. It knocked the peg down, and the wooden arms holding the ship in place swung to the side.

The ship plummeted, the deck dropped out of view, and before Vincent could do more than blink, so did the ship's lift balloon. He stepped to the edge of the wharf, leaned over the rails, and pointed down at the ship now flying through the open skies below, making sure Nottle was able to track the departing skiff. "A ship can be at speed in seconds, once it's launched," Vincent said.

"It has its uses. I can see as much," the commodore said. He waved his hand dismissively, and tucked his bicorne hat under his arm. But his eyes were wide, and he was nodding thoughtfully to himself.

Vincent knew the commodore's words for the lie they were. Nottle, like most of the admiralty, had no appreciation for the advantages of a sky-bound shipyard. Of every port under the sun, the Roost would be the hardest to seize in an open conflict. Controlling the air above was impossible, since these yards were already in the open sky. The guns on the docks had the same range as any approaching vessel, and dozens of their own ships could be put into action in minutes.